When the Mockingjay Sings
by kab16
Summary: "The hum of the oven. The crackle of bread turning crisp. These were the sounds of my world, and her voice swept them all away." Her voice was the first thing he fell in love with. Mockingjay spoilers. Peeta POV


_When the Mockingjay Sings _

The hum of the oven. The crackle of bread turning crisp. The soft whooshing of the air from the icing dispensers when they're near empty. These were the sounds of my world, and her voice swept them all away. I sat mesmerized as she sung, her braided pigtails bouncing as she swayed. I've seen the most magnificent colors glistening on the tops of cakes; my father could create all types of designs that I could stare at for hours, but this was the first time I experienced true beauty. That girl in the red dress, so carefree has her voice filled the air, was perfect. She was perfect.

* * *

The sounds of the kitchen meant nothing to me anymore. My mother's humming was like death making home in my ears. I longed always to be with Katniss. I dreamt of standing under her window, listening to her magic. I imagined holding her hand steady as I taught her how to ice a cake. I pictured us lying in the meadow, her singing a song written just for me. Those lips where such enthralling sounds have passed through, what would they feel like against my own?

* * *

Boom.

The sound of the explosion resonated through my whole being. The streets were silent as the town kids hurry home and those from the seam rush to the mines holding their breathes. I broke away from my crowd and headed to the mine. I watched as the group thins. Joyous cries that weren't nearly as loud as her heart wrenching silence. I watched her watch the miners climb out of the ground, one after another. I watched and her mother and her sister huddle together and take in the news. And from the change in her face, I could see how much she had lost.

Her voice included.

* * *

A strange mix of pure silence and screams spread through my brain. The outside world was muddled. The meaning of her words unfolded in my mind. "I volunteer!" It was the first time I heard her speak in years.

And Effie Trinket's shrill voice. My own name being read in some far away and irrelevant place. I fought my way through the initial shock and tried to clear my mind as I made me way to the stage. As I stared at her, only a foot away from me, and shook her hand. So long I have wanted to hear her voice, hold her hand.

But not like this.

* * *

The sound of her name disgusted me. Her voice so horrifying it sent chills down my spine. The Capitol stuck needles into my veins and played videos of Katniss and her sick ways on the screen as they whispered in my ear. Katniss, that mutt barking out lies! I wanted her dead. I would have killed her if I could.

The return of my own thoughts was a gradual process. Everyone was telling me what was real and what was not but I still didn't know. Who were the liars? Who was speaking the truth?

It wasn't until I was lying in my tent outside the Capital with Boggs and Mitchell standing guard that I remembered her singing. It came back on its own, and it's the first time that I felt like me.

* * *

I don't ask her to sing anymore. I don't want to bring her back to bad times. Singing is attached to her father and Prim and Rue and Mockingjay's. My fantasies of teaching her how to ice a cake and having her write me songs have long since passed, but I have her and I couldn't ask for more.

I'm picking toys up off the floor when I hear it. Drifting through the rooms like dandelion seeds on a soft breeze. I tiptoe down the hall as if the sound was glass so easy to break and find her in the back room holding a sleeping child, a song escaping her lips. I stand perfectly still, letting her voice wash over me. It's been so long.

I take a step inside and she whips her head around, the music gone in an instant. I smile and sit beside her on the small bed.

"I thought you lost your voice," I whisper.

"Me too."

"Keep going."

Katniss rolls her eyes and nods to the child, running a hand through her hair. "She's asleep."

"So?"

She sighs and I weave my hand into hers. She looks from our hands up to my face, and slowly she begins.

She slides closer and rests her head against my shoulder. I keep my hand in hers and listen to her sing to the sound of our daughter's steady breaths.


End file.
